Chapter 21
Emilia
T he morning of Adrianna’s bridal shower was supposed to be relaxing. A chance to celebrate my best friend and her upcoming marriage, sip champagne, and pretend for a few hours that my life wasn’t a tangled mess of obligations and unspoken rules. But instead, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around me, my hair dripping wet, and my nerves fraying by the second.
The remnants of my earlier attempt at hair and makeup were scattered across the counter—foundation bottles knocked over, a curling iron still plugged in, and a lipstick tube rolling dangerously close to the edge. It had all started with one of my brothers’ girlfriends—Jenna, I think—insisting I try her favorite hair and makeup artist. “He’s a genius,” she’d said. “You’ll look like a goddess.”
Genius, my ass. The second I’d caught sight of myself in the mirror, I’d nearly screamed. The makeup was too heavy, the contouring so sharp it looked like I was auditioning for a drag show, and my hair—oh, God, my hair. It had been teased within an inch of its life, the curls so tight and unnatural that I looked like a deranged pageant queen.
I thanked the artist through gritted teeth, paid him, and then promptly jumped into the shower to wash it all off. Which left me here, with five minutes to get ready and absolutely no time to panic.
A knock on the front door echoed through the house, followed by the low murmur of voices. Dante. Of course, he was here already. Punctual as ever, because God forbid he give me even a minute of breathing room. I could hear his voice—deep, commanding, and far too close for comfort—as he spoke to one of the housekeepers.
I slammed the bathroom door shut, locking it for good measure. The last thing I needed was for him to see me like this, half-dressed and frazzled, with mascara smudged under my eyes and a towel slipping dangerously low on my chest.
“Get it together, Emilia,” I muttered to myself, grabbing the blow dryer with one hand and a makeup brush with the other. Multitasking wasn’t exactly my forte, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
By the time I emerged from my room, I was five minutes late and barely holding it together. My hair was still damp at the ends, my makeup rushed but passable, and my dress—a simple, pale blue satin number—clung to my still-warm skin. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
Dante was waiting in the foyer, leaning against the banister with the kind of casual arrogance that made my blood boil. He was dressed in a dark suit, the fabric tailored to perfection, and his tie was just loose enough to give him that maddeningly effortless look. He glanced up as I descended the stairs, his dark eyes flicking over me once before returning to his phone.
Nothing. No smirk, no comment, not even a raised eyebrow. Just a single, dismissive glance before he went back to whatever text or email had his attention.
I froze on the last step, my hand gripping the railing as a wave of embarrassment crashed over me. Did I look that bad? Was it obvious I’d thrown myself together at the last minute? My stomach twisted, and I smoothed my hands over my dress, suddenly hyper aware of every wrinkle, every imperfection.
“Are you ready?” he asked without looking up, his voice as indifferent as ever.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to nod. “Yeah. Let’s go. ”
The car ride was silent, the tension between us thick and suffocating. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city blur past as I tried to ignore the gnawing insecurity eating away at me. But it was impossible not to notice the little things—the way he’d adjusted the air conditioning to just the right temperature, the way the seat was tilted slightly forward, like he’d remembered how I hated feeling like I was sinking into the car. And then there was the water bottle.
It was sitting in the cupholder on my side, the condensation beading on the plastic. I stared at it for a moment, my mind racing as I tried to remember if I’d mentioned my habit of keeping a water bottle in my bag—or the fact that I’d forgotten one today.
“Why is there a water bottle here?” I asked finally, breaking the silence.
He glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable. “My assistant probably put it there.”
I frowned, studying his face for any hint of a lie. But if he was bluffing, he was damn good at it. “Your assistant?”
“Yeah,” he said, his tone flat. “She stocks the car. Snacks, water, whatever. It’s not that deep, princess.”
I bristled at the nickname, but I didn’t press the issue. Instead, I reached for the water bottle, twisting off the cap and taking a long sip. The cool liquid soothed my dry throat, but it did little to calm the storm brewing in my chest.
I fidgeted with the cap, twisting it back and forth as the silence stretched on. Dante’s hands were steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, but I could feel his attention flickering toward me every so often, like he was waiting for me to say something.
“What’s wrong?” he asked suddenly, his voice laced with impatience.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly.
He sighed, rolling his eyes as he switched lanes. “You’re lying.”
I clenched my jaw, my fingers tightening around the water bottle. “I said it’s nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he shot back, his tone sharper now. “Spit it out.”
I hesitated, my gaze dropping to my lap. The last thing I wanted was to admit how insecure I was feeling, especially not to him. But the weight of his stare was too much, and the words tumbled out before I could stop them.
“I hated my makeup,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “And my hair. The stylist made me look like...like someone else. So I washed it all off and had to do it myself. That’s why I’m late.”
He didn’t respond right away, and I risked a glance at him, half-expecting to see amusement or judgment in his expression. But his face was unreadable, his jaw tight as he kept his eyes on the road.
“You look great,” he said finally, his voice low and almost...hesitant.
I blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. “You didn’t even look at me.”
His grip on the wheel tightened, and he glanced at me briefly, his dark eyes meeting mine. “I looked.”
“Once,” I countered, my voice sharper than I intended. “And then you went back to your phone.”
He sighed, his shoulders tensing as he shifted in his seat. “I looked, Emilia. You look fine.”
Fine. The word stung more than it should have, and I turned back to the window, my chest tightening with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. Fine wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Fine wasn’t enough.
The drive was passing in silence, the tension between us thick and suffocating.
“Stop fidgeting,” Dante said quietly, his tone softer now, but still carrying that edge of command that set my teeth on edge.
I stilled my hands, gripping the water bottle tightly instead. The silence between us was unbearable, the tension so thick it felt like the air in the car had turned to molasses. My thoughts swirled in a chaotic mess, and before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out.
“You have a female assistant?”
Dante’s head tilted slightly, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Yeah. Why?”
I shrugged, trying to play it off, but my voice betrayed me. “It’s just...surprising, I guess.”
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Why? You think I can’t handle working with women?”
“No,” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. “I just didn’t think you’d want one. You don’t seem like the type to...I don’t know...trust someone like that.”
He chuckled, the sound low and infuriating. “Someone like that? You mean a woman?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said quickly, my cheeks flushing. “I just—never mind.”
Dante’s smirk deepened, and I could feel his gaze on me even as he kept his eyes on the road. “Are you jealous, princess?”
I whipped my head toward him, my mouth falling open in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm. “Are you jealous of my assistant?”
I scoffed, turning back to the window, but the heat in my cheeks betrayed me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” he echoed, his tone laced with amusement. “You’re the one bringing her up out of nowhere. Sounds like jealousy to me.”
“I’m not jealous,” I said firmly, though the words felt hollow even to me. “I just think it’s funny that you trust her to stock your car but can’t even trust me to—”
“To what?” he interrupted, his voice sharper now. “To take care of yourself? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re doing a pretty shitty job of that today.”
I flinched, his words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. My grip on the water bottle tightened, and I stared straight ahead, refusing to let him see how much he’d gotten to me.
“Well, maybe she looked better than ‘fine’ today,” I muttered under my breath, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
The car went silent, and I immediately regretted saying anything. I could feel Dante’s gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured.
“Is this what this is about?” he asked, his tone laced with exasperation. “You’re sulking because I said you looked fine?”
“I’m not sulking,” I shot back, though the heat in my cheeks said otherwise.
He sighed, the sound heavy and resigned, and without warning, he pulled the car to the side of the road. The tires crunched against the gravel, and the sudden stop jolted me forward slightly. My heart leapt into my throat as I turned to him, wide-eyed.
“What are you doing?” I demanded. “We’re going to be late!”
“Shut up,” he said, his voice low but commanding, and it sent a shiver down my spine.
Before I could respond, he unbuckled his seatbelt and turned toward me, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that stole the air from my lungs. The space between us seemed to shrink, the car suddenly feeling far too small, far too intimate.
“Dante—”
He didn’t let me finish. His hand shot out, cupping the back of my neck with a firm but gentle grip as he pulled me toward him. His lips crashed against mine, and for a moment, my mind went completely blank.
It was fierce and consuming, a clash of heat and desperation that left me breathless. His hand tightened slightly on my neck, anchoring me to him, while his other hand gripped the edge of my seat, as if he needed to steady himself.
I should have pushed him away. I should have slapped him, yelled at him, something. But instead, I found myself leaning into him, my hands clutching the front of his suit jacket as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded. His lips moved against mine with a skill and confidence that made my head spin, and when his teeth grazed my bottom lip, a soft gasp escaped me.
That seemed to snap him out of it. He pulled back abruptly, his breathing heavy as he stared at me with a mix of frustration and something else I couldn’t quite place. His hand lingered on my neck for a moment longer before he let go, dragging it through his hair as he leaned back in his seat.
“Dante…” I began, my voice shaky and uncertain, but he cut me off.
“Don’t,” he said, his tone rough and strained. “Don’t say anything.”
I swallowed hard, my heart still racing as I stared at him. His jaw was tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked...unsettled.
The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until he finally spoke.
“You don’t look fine,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You look...beautiful.”
My breath caught, and I turned to him, my chest tightening at the raw honesty in his tone. But before I could respond, he started the car again, pulling back onto the road without another word.
The rest of the drive was silent, the tension between us crackling like a live wire. I stared out the window, my mind racing as I tried to make sense of what had just happened. But no matter how hard I tried, one thought kept playing over and over in my head.
Dante Conti had kissed me. Again.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stop.